The End

Twas the day before Christmas and all through the grotto,

Parents queued patiently, Children not so,

There was excitement, jumping, laughing and cheer

And of course the obligatory toddler's tears,

Everyone seemed much nicer than before

Although I did have to wrestle a boy to the floor

We got through the queue, no problems or faults,

Avoided any charges of physical assault,

Presents all given, photos as well,

No more keyrings or magnets or hat with a bell,

The grotto is cleared, the letters all sent,

The elves all set for unemployment,

There really is nothing else to do, 

but to wish a very merry Christmas to you

from Ice, Magic, Snapshot, Bounce too

But probably not Twinkle.

The Night Before Christmas Eve

Tomorrow is our last day.


We will be short staffed. Our tempers will be even shorter. We will be incredibly busy. We have all at some point or other this week displayed signs of cabin fever and are ready to kill each other and/or all our customers.


What we need is a Christmas miracle. 


On the plus side we will get to watch anxious parents listen to what their kids ask Santa for and realise they've bought the wrong thing. Well, if you are stupid enough to bring your children to see Santa on Christmas Eve...

The Comeuppance

One elf had started to become a bit of a problem. She was slow on the tills, she took way too many photos and every time she was on our money would be down at least 40 pounds. No-one thought she was stealing, we just thought she was stupid.

On Tuesday she came in 30 minutes before her shift to say she'd had a fight with her mum and didn't feel up to working. Lame excuse, but as we could manage without her, head elf let it slide.

Today was insanely busy. Glimmer was sick and got sent home early. We were coping as best as we could, I was only til 3 and was looking forward to getting away and having a late lunch, the aforementioned elf was due to replace me for her last shift. At 2.45pm head elf came and begged me to stay an extra hour. I had places to be, people to see, food to eat, but things were desperate. Head elf was not happy, she'd finally had enough of lazy elf. Lazy elf who sent her mother down 15 minutes before her shift to say she wouldn't be in.

Head office was called, the truth was told and lazy elf will lose money for breaking her contract.

And who is the lazy elf of which I speak? Twinkle. I knew she wasn't worthy of my name.

The Names 2

As we approach the end of the grotto I feel I should do a round up of the most ridiculous names to pass through the enchanted forest.

 

5) Any name that is undoubtedly chosen from the pages of Heat magazine: Rihanna, Shakira, Keisha, Kai, Beyonce. We've had them all. We even had an Enya today.

4) Meadow

3) Aya Sky  

2) Two sisters: Acacia and Madoka. 'Are they types of wood?' I asked mother. 'I don't know, their father picked them.' 

And the number 1 place, without a doubt, goes to:

1) Shock

First name. Baby dressed like a bumble bee.

The Apology

Monday was my last day with Santa B and as he gave me my Christmas card and later gave me a lift home, I couldn't help feel a bit guilty. 


He really is a very nice man. And he isn't the worst Santa in the world. I saw one last week that was clearly a skinnier than average adolescent, with little to no effort to look the part. For all his faults, Santa B tried his best. And it wasn't really his fault that his hat kept falling off, and his padding sat weirdly and his beard went into his mouth. Santa A is pretty tough competition, and I must say I did notice improvement. A few safety pins here, and readjustment of the wig there and Santa B didn't do half badly. 


I'm sorry for misjudging you Santa B. Merry Christmas to you and yours.

The Coping Mechanism

6 weeks on and patience is almost up. 


The generally public are, by and large, incredibly stupid. They are incapable of queueing without a metal barrier to keep them in line; the concept of three photo items for the price of two is apparently tantamount to quantum physics; the seemingly insurmountable task of choosing between the three identical photos of their child screaming is made all the more arduous when they cannot pay attention for long enough to view them. Basically the grotto has made us despise humanity, a little bit.


We all have different ways of coping. Bounce tends to swear as they exit, Magic makes faces while they are adjusting their child for the photo. I've taken to muttering, usually under my breath. 

The Chat Up

A surprising amount of people like chatting up elves.


You'd think the garish, ill-fitting costume, the skin rubbed raw by excessive face paint and the fact that every time we move a bell rings, would have a negative impact on our attractiveness, but apparently not. 


Bounce generally gets the older men, older older. I think it's cause she's from Mauritius and men in Belfast over 60 are still amazed they have met someone so exotic, even if she is dressed as an elf.


Snapshot gets the middle-aged. Often married with a glaring wife. This is partly because she knows and has been out with a large percentage of the middle-aged population of Belfast.


And Ice. Ice attracts the younger crowd. Generally 13-18, sometimes toddlers. It's always full of awkward adolescence and finishes with the crushing realisation that I won't come home and play video games with them because I am actually 10 years older than they think. Oh yeah, and married. 


But all of us agree we are definitely receiving more attention in the grotto than we have anywhere else. I sure Freud would have a field day.


In reverse, Magic, the only male elf, stands all day ogling the beautiful Chinese girl who works at the stall behind us. He has yet to stay hello.

The Swearing

*disclaimer. In order to discuss swearing, Ice must use swear words, but will soften them down with '1's and '*'s so as to avoid offence. It is Christmas after all.


Ice is not generally a swearing elf, though, on occasion, I've been tempted to direct a torrent of abuse at customers or, more often, Rocky the Singing Raccoon who pops out of the creepy enchanted tree every five minutes. On Christmas Eve that raccoon is going down. But I am continually surprised at the amount of parents who swear at their kids. Call me conservative, but it's a Christmas grotto, it kind of ruins some of the magic when echoes of 'you wee sh*t' reverberate around the tree.


They also swear at me. Not aggressively, just by way of conversation. 'She wouldn't smile, the little b*tch', a father said to me at the back till. I looked down expecting to see some monster of a child. The pretty, ringleted, 4 year old looked back at me shyly, still obviously traumatised by her visit to Santa.


I try to glare them from under my jungle bell hat to show them the error of their ways. Guess who's going to be on the naughty list this year.

The Misunderstanding

Santa asks the child what they want for Christmas. Santa gives the child a present. You can see where a misunderstanding might occur.


Admittedly Santa does try to explain to them that this is just a small present to remind them to be good until Christmas Eve when he will come with their big presents, but the message doesn't always sink in.


A child leaves the grotto excitedly holding their present. 'What do you think it is?' Parent asks. 'A Nintendo DS,' the child states confidently. Moments later the child is crying, assuming that they weren't good enough and the present they have just asked Santa for will not be coming. A storybook worth 1-2 pounds is lying on the floor. 

The Out of Context Elf

Everyone, at least once in their life, should try doing ordinary things dressed as an elf.


This week, for the first time, I took a toilet break during a shift. The nearest facilities to the grotto are in the food court upstairs so I got the escalator up and began working my way through the crowd and various fast food chains. I had seen a few heads turning but it wasn't until I was outside KFC that I noticed the tension in the atmosphere. A boy turned to me as I tried to slip past; 'You're Santa's elf. What are you doing here?' he said accusingly. I realised he was voicing what everyone was thinking. I was dressed as an elf, and this was not somewhere I was welcome. At any moment I expected leftover pieces of pizza and fried chicken to be thrown my way amidst chants of 'Out Elf!'


I made it to the bathroom safely and joined the queue. There again I felt the heat of suspicious glares, as if the people behind me were angry that one of my kind was preventing them from getting to the toilet quicker. When I was finished a little girl watched me wash my hands. Part of me felt bad, like I was ruining some kind of illusion; elves go to the toilet too. But then I thought it would've been much worse if she'd watched me not wash my hands.


Yesterday I went to the bank to get more change for the grotto. As I approached the desk, I couldn't help feel that as I was in costume and everything, they half expected me to, and perhaps I should've, held them up and robbed the bank. I didn't.

The Divorced Dad

Divorced Dad can be spotted a mile away. It's his day with the kids and they've guilt tripped him in to taking them to see Santa. He stands awkwardly in the queue, sure that he's not doing something right. When asked the children's name and age he reddens, under pressure as if in an exam hall. 'What age are you again?', he jokingly asks them. He fidgets and taps his foot until it is time to go in.


With Divorced Dad, taking the photo is easy. Regardless of it's quality, he will always say he's happy with the first picture. The visit is brief, the photo is collected and he moves on as quickly as possible. He knows that the kids will probably come again next week with mummy and assumes they will have a much better time.

The Half Way Point

We are now over half way into the grotto's lifetime. 


Whilst it's been lots of fun and we all enjoy working together, we are all also getting a little tired. The twinkling of the trees doesn't seem so bright anymore, you could say. And we all, we suspect, are going a little crazy.


We continuously sing 'Santa Claus is coming to town', even on our breaks, we hear our jingle bell hats and children's cries in our sleep, and we now all think it's normal to repeatedly shout 'smile' and shake a rattle in toddlers' faces.


We are all also slowly beginning to hate the human race.


I wouldn't be surprised if some day soon we go awol. There will be ripping of tickets, breaking of rattles and shouts of 'That's a ridiculous name of course I can't spell it / How can I get a good photo if your child hates Santa? / MOVE OUT OF THE WAY / I DON'T CARE ABOUT KEYRINGS, MAGNETS AND PHOTOS JUST MAKE A DECISION / WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THERE'S 50 OTHER PEOPLE IN THE QUEUE / YOU'RE NOT GETTING ANY PRESENTS FROM SANTA'


I'm looking forward to the day Santa goes awol.

The Day of the Jacky

I saw him run up the queue, past those in front and bound past me into the grotto. I ran to catch and encourage back in my best 'I'm not touching your child' moves. I served the next customer and he was gone.


Ten minutes later he decided to come back, this time trailed by his weary mother. In broken English we began to establish if she wanted a photo or gift or both or whatever. He was off again. This time out of the grotto. Weary mother ended our conversation and set about following. He ran round a few stalls and back up to the grotto.


This time we complete the conversation and transaction and Jacky was allowed in to officially see Santa. 


He sat surprisingly well for his photo, and mother and son left to go about their business.


I watched their business for the rest of the day. It was simply Jacky running various places in the shopping centre and mother walking slowly in the same direction. 


A few hours later he was back at my till. Confused I began asking mother if he was coming in again. No, he just decided to walk this way and it was her job to follow.


I decided to do some Christmas shopping after my shift. I walked past the closed grotto only to see Jacky opening the gate and running back up the empty line. Mother stood nervously watching. I stood with her.


I took a quick scout down before leaving the centre relieved to see Jacky lying in the middle of the animal cushion stall. Somebody else's problem.

The Weekend Girls

Ice is strictly a week day elf. Ice and Bounce and Magic and Snapshot take their work seriously, working Monday to Friday, in the slightly calmer but no less important week day environment. They deal with a lot of preschoolers, listen to a lot of cries, coo over a lot of babies and perfect their elven craft day in day out.


There are however, weekend elves. Those to whom elfing is not their main occupation. Those to whom elfing takes a back seat. And it shows. 


In the changing room costumes are rolled in a ball. In the grotto rubbish bins are not emptied. A disproportionate amount of chocolate lollies are consumed. And the queue that is a ridiculous length moves slower than ever.


Last week there had to be a 'team meeting' with the weekend elves. On Monday we got complained at once again by the cleaning staff - red paint all over the changing rooms. We week day elves are not fans of these part timers.


This Saturday Ice has to work. You'd better watch out.

The Tree

As mentioned, in the middle of the grotto there is a ginormous Christmas tree. How it, or any of the grotto, got there I don't know - I can only assume it was the work of the 'real' elves, but there it is and every day it gets a few additions.


Something I did not know before I became an elf, is that babies and toddlers like to give Santa their dummies (dodos/pacifiers - is that what you really call them in America? Sounds sinister). These dummies are then placed on the tree, and Santa promises he will use them for the baby reindeer. Weird, I know. What's weirder is having tens, maybe even a hundred, babies' dummies hanging from the giant tree you work under. It's probably not the most hygienic thing either.


Alongside these we place the many letters Santa receives, which we then read and make fun off when there's no customers. There are several unflattering drawings, a few Christmas cards, but mainly they are just lists of misspelt toys written in adult's handwriting. My favourite requests so far have been for a Michael Jackson Jigsaw, and a two year old who asked for a laptop. 


The tree has also accumulated several other items such as a deflated balloon, a small monster truck and several 'magic keys' given by kids who don't have chimneys to help Santa get in on Christmas Eve.


Our stunted elven height means we're sadly running out of places on the tree we can reach to put things. Pretty soon we'll start throwing out the letters of children we don't like. 

The Awkward Moment When...

Your old history tutor from university takes his daughter to see Santa.


My costume and lack of participation in his seminars prevented any recognition. I was about to reveal myself when I thought that perhaps he might not consider elfing a suitable profession and might assume his teaching was wasted.

The Passive Resistance

We get a lot of tears and screams. A lot of struggling and wriggling and mad dash escape attempts. But the reaction I find most entertaining is much less dramatic. There's no action at all. My favourite type of child is the one that will sit on Santa's knee if they are placed there, will look at the camera when asked, but will not, under any circumstances, enjoy it and they most certainly will not smile.


By in large, they are usually 2-4 year old boys. They don't seem particularly frightened by Santa, just unimpressed, disapproving even. Conscientious objectors to this whole Santa nonsense. They have reasoned that they cannot stop their parents from taking them to see Santa or placing them on his knee, but they can assert their right not to smile. And nothing mummy or daddy can do will change that.


But that doesn't stop them trying. They clap and sing and dance and even lie on the floor making silly faces. The child is unmoved. It's resolve to resist only strengthened by it's parent's humiliation. 


As seen so many times in history, the way of non violence and passive resistance can enact great change upon society. And can provide amusing Santa photos.

The Lunch Break

Santa has a lunch break. Shocking, I know, but rules of employment state it must be so. And so the grotto must be shut for 30 minutes, and so the elves must try to empty the grotto before those 30 minutes start. 


This requires a concerted effort. We are not allowed to officially close the grotto before our break. Instead we post a patrol elf at the entrance, continuously looking at the clock and deciding if another child can be let in. We never finish on time, but as soon as the last child has been 'what do you want for Christmas/smile smile smile'ed, it is our elf duty to get Santa out of there asap. That is, everyone except the lunch guard.


Every day, one elf must stay behind to the protect the grotto from evil forces. Whilst the other elves and Santa are off eating sandwiches and making chitchat to the various nationalities in the staff room, Guard Elf sits on the giant present in the middle of the grotto at the point where you can see both tills and finds ways to look busy. This usually involves folding photo frames. But, as busy as you try to look, you will still be bombarded with confused and annoyed parents wondering where Santa is. They will then stand there for the full 30 minutes watching you with their accusing eyes. 


Occasionally a cleaner comes to sweep up broken fragments of snow. 

The Repetition

'Hi what can I get for you?'
'It's 3.95 for a gift, and 5 pounds for one photo or you can get 3 photo items for 10 pounds'
'It's up to you whether you want a photo, magnet or keyring'


'What's the child's name?'
'How do you spell that?'


'Are you excited to see Santa?'
'Have you been good?'
'What are you going to ask him for?'


'It's your turn to see Santa!'
'Go and give him a big smile'
'There's nothing to be afraid of'
'You're not going to cry are you?'


'Smile! Smile! Smile! Smile! (insert child's name) smile!'


'I think that's the best photo we're going to get'


'Are you happy with this photo? I think that's the best one'
'Yes you can see them all if you want, but I think that's the best one'
'You'll take that one then'


'That's a nice one'


'They all cry at that age'
'Yes you can have a refund'

The Grotto

I suppose a description of the actual grotto wouldn't go amiss. 

Unlike others, ours is an open grotto. There is no darkened room to enter to add to the child's torment, everything is visible from outside - ticking all the Child Protection boxes. 

Ours is themed on an enchanted forest. I didn't actually noticed this until a couple of weeks in, but it is. You can tell this by the large enchanted tree at the entrance. It has scary blinking eyes and a singing raccoon that pops out of the top from time to time and sings the same four Christmas songs on loop. I hate that raccoon. 

Walking past the entrance you pass two mechanical elves who move back and forth hammering the same toy. The fact that they are of traditional elf height kind of shows us human sized elves up. You pass several more lit up trees and then you're at the front till. 

The path that leads you to Santa is bordered with low quality fake snow that is proving a liability with buggies and running children. There are several moving animals that are often the saviours of frightened toddlers. They like to stay near the oversized hedgehog at the start, gradually move to the moving bunnies near the camera and finish off with the sleeping fox beside the exit. What hedgehogs, rabbits and foxes have to do with Christmas, I'm not sure, but they're there none the less. There is also another creepy mechanical elf beside the camera. He is obscured by trees just enough to make me forget he's there and be terrified once again when I noticed something moving out of the corner of my eye. Due to bad positioning he has nearly lost a finger by repeatedly moving into the gate. A hole has also been poked into Mr Hedgehog by a moving tree branch.

Behind Santa's chair there is two shelves of toys that have been wisely screwed down. It wasn't until one day when I thought I was becoming ill that I realised the toys are also moving. Just gently side to side. 

There is also of course a lot of twinkly lights and loosely covered up wires that will no doubt someday soon lead to a tragic fire related accident.

The Pushy Parent

There are many kinds of parent I find annoying, but my current bugbear is Pushy Parent.


Pushy Parent is most annoying when accompanied by Pleasant Child. Pleasant Child is excited to see Santa, is above the age of cries and screams, and is more than willing to sit on Santa's knee and pose for the obligatory photo.


The photo is taken.


'Are you happy enough with that one?' Helpful Elf asks, pointing to the display screen that shows the perfectly decent photo that has just been taken. Pushy Parent goes over to inspect.


'Eh, could we maybe take another one?' Pushy Parent asks with feigned politeness. They turn to Pleasant Child. 'Smile properly this time.'


Another photo is taken.


'No, you look weird, try smiling again.'


Another photo.


Strained laughter. 'What's wrong with you today?' Turns to partner/granny/friend. 'She/He looks terrible in these.'


This continues for as long as Helpful Elf has patience, and results in a horrible forced smile from Pleasant Child who is now attempting to hold back the tears as Happy Visit to Santa has been destroyed by Pushy Parent.


They usually end up choosing the first photo.

The Lone Ranger

On Thursdays I only work a short shift in the afternoon, usually starting at 2pm or 2.30pm. Normally, we elves get ready together, wait for Santa to finish his sudoku puzzle (A) or his cigarette (B), then escort him from the outhouse to the grotto. On Thursdays I get ready alone. 


There's something quite unnerving about walking into a room full of hardened security guards and cleaning staff dressed as an elf, solo. On a normal day we leave in a flurry of noise and laughter whilst anyone else present looks on bemused. On Thursdays there's silence as I emerge from the changing rooms and attempt a feeble 'hello'. 


I walk through the yard, and along the corridor that leads to the shopping centre avoiding eye contact. When I get into the centre things aren't much better. It is a universal principal that people in costumes are perfectly acceptable, even funny, in groups of three or more, possibly two. People in costumes alone are, at best, weirdos, at worst, threats to society. On Thursdays, I am treated as such.


It is with relief I reach the outskirts of the grotto and people finally twig as to why I'm dressed as an elf. I join my kind, and once again am socially acceptable. 

The Soundtrack

I've decided to listen to this everyday before work.

The Real Deal

Santa A has me almost convinced he's the real deal. And I'm not the only one. Parents comment on his authenticity, passers by remark on the likeness, children turn up on Sunday and Monday (Santa B's days) and demand to see 'the real one'.


Every extra thing I learn about him supports his claim. He loves chocolate, he's very good at quizzes, does complicated sudoku puzzles daily, makes his own paella and he worked for a charity in Uganda at the time of Idi Amin. These all seem like plausible Santa attributes and activities. 


It's becoming increasingly difficult for Santa B to compete. I'm not sure there ever really was a competition, but it's hard to know if his weakness is largely based on Santa A's strength. But then again, the camera doesn't lie. I struggled through Monday trying not to laugh at terrible photo after terrible photo - and for once it wasn't the child and/or parent's fault. It was Santa B. It is unfortunate that his fake beard covers his mouth so all you can ever see are his eyes. It is also unfortunate that as far as I know Santa B has never met Tyra Banks and never been taught to 'smeyes' (smile with your eyes). The result is either a sinister stare or a lack of looking altogether. 'Santa's asleep in that one', a phrase I heard more than once. 


Not convinced he does see me when I'm sleeping after all. Santa A on the other hand - I'm pretty sure he knows everything.

The Sick Update

I promised to keep you updated on the piles of sick beside the grotto. There have been no more.

The Outback

There is a place where elves are made. Where costumes are donned and make up is applied. Where the magical grotto day begins and ends.


It's 'out back'.


Through doors I had never noticed before in the middle of the shopping centre, you are taken to a cold dimly lit corridor. The corridor leads to a dirty plastic curtain. The curtain leads outside to the large recycling bins and badly parked delivery trucks. Walking around the trucks leads to a combination locked door. Typing in ******* leads to a sad room with two tables of six chairs, several copies of The Sun, a vending machine that doesn't work and a fridge that doesn't shut. Going through the door marked female leads to heavily padlocked lockers and a bathroom covered in traces of red facepaint.


We elves share this 'area' with the cleaners and service people of the shopping centre. There are extended bursts of bad language drifting through the air. Swear words sound much more shocking when you're dressed as an elf. You should try it sometime. 


It is also the most cosmopolitan area of Belfast I have ever been to. If we must have people from other countries we like them to do jobs we don't want to. There a regular lunchtime conversations about burial rites in Nigeria and fashion trends in Poland. In any other country this would not seem in any way remarkable, but keep in mind Northern Ireland used to be so homogeneous that my brother tried to lick the first black person he saw in London because he thought he was made of chocolate. My brother was 27*.


Out back is probably the most incongruous place to walk around in dressed as an elf. But I'm beginning to forget I'm wearing a costume. We sit there at lunch, three elves and Santa, eating our sandwiches. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves. No-one else seems to want to sit near us. To be honest, I prefer being in the grotto.


*This may not be true.

The Smell

My elf suit has begun to smell. It can get pretty hot in there, and I'm not sure if I'm allowed to take it home and clean it. I hang it in the tiny locker I share with Bounce, and our two suits sit festering together. It's only been two weeks out of six. I'm trying to eat copious amounts of chocolate so that's all people will smell when they come near me but I think they're beginning to notice.


Word on the street is Santa has some Febreeze.

The Decision

Before elfing I would have said that the most difficult decision an adult has to make would probably involve career choice, marriage, raising children or health issues. I was wrong. 


The most difficult decision an adult faces is whether to get a keyring, magnet or photo in the Santa's Grotto 3 for 10 pounds photo pack. That could mean getting 3 photos, or 1 keyring and 2 photos, or 2 keyrings and 1 photo, or 3 keyrings, or 1 magnet and 2 photos, or 2 magnets and 1 photo, or 3 magnets, or 2 keyrings and 1 magnet, or 2 magnets and 1 keyring, or 1 photo 1 magnet and 1 keyring. It really is very hard to decide.


And then we have to think about what granny would want.

The Puppy

A few days ago a child came to see Santa. I was on the back till paying little attention to what was going on. There was a bit of commotion in the shopping centre. I looked up to see a man holding a gold box with a hole in the top. Something was moving. As the man came closer I realised it was a tiny puppy, and that the man was heading for the grotto.


As the child was sitting talking to Santa about what she wanted for Christmas the man snuck past me. The child looked up to see her dad holding what she'd just asked for. They all got a photo together and away they went.


A little while later the child's mother reappeared with another box. This time it was for us, Santa and his helpers, and contained many flavours of delicious chocolate. There was a card thanking us for helping them make their visit to Santa and the arrival of the puppy so special.


I felt a little guilty as at no time during the proceedings was I fully aware of what was going on. I have continued daily to eat the chocolates none the less.

The Emails

On our training day we were set a challenge. The shopping centre's marketing department told us that if we could get 2000 email addresses by Christmas Eve we would each receive a 50 pound gift card. All it requires is getting parents to sign up to an email newsletter, and receive a free colouring set in return.


With most people, it's a piece of cake. 'Do you have an email address? If you fill this in you get a colouring set. Do you want Peppa Pig or Star Wars?'. I'm sad to report Peppa Pig is, on ratio, around 5:1 more popular than Star Wars. To be fair we are dealing mostly with the preschool crowd. 


For some people however, the concept is too much to handle. They fill out the sheet, I give them the set, only to look down and see that the email address line is blank. The only line that the form clearly specifies must be filled in to receive the gift. So what do I do? Rip Peppa Pig from the child's hands, simultaneously chastising them for their lack of Star Wars appreciation and hold the parent to ransom until they produce an address? Or, use the information they have given me to make up something I think might possibly pass for a genuine email. As much as I love taking things from children, the latter amuses me much more. I usually play it safe and go for some variation of their name @ generic popular email server. But sometimes, if they're younger or dressed weird I'll mix it up a little with 'weebelfastgirl' or 'ilovejustinbieber' or 'leopardprintisawesome' @ generic popular email server.


This was working nicely - everyone got the colouring set, I was entertained, until we got an update today that although we've collected more than 600 address, many were not counted due to emails bouncing back.


Plan B is to go through my old hotmail account from the days when everyone swapped email addresses, and actually sent emails, and use those of people I no longer care for :) 

The Misinformation

My gran keeps telling people I'm a gnome.

The Names

As mentioned, part of an elf's job is to discreetly take down the child's name and get this information to Santa. Santa of course already knows the name, he just occasionally needs a few reminders.


If the child looks like it can speak properly, I incorporate a little 'and what's your name?' into the 'hi, i'm an elf, welcome to the grotto' spiel. This rarely works. I can't respond to their shy mumblings or incomprehensible child's voice with my usual polite nod of the head. I actually have to write the name down. I take what I've heard and hazard a guess, 'What's that, Robert?', 'No, Michael' the child/and or parent will angrily reply. 


The other tactic is to ask the parent. That's simple enough, you're thinking. Well it is, except that if they're small, sometimes I can't actually see them from behind the till. I often don't know how many of them there are and I certainly don't know their gender. This can often be a problem even when I can see the child, and sometimes even after I've got the name. I can ask a clumsy, 'what's the child's name?' but that feels a little obvious and impersonal. So I usually settle for a 'What's h... name?' and make a sound somewhere in-between 'his' and 'her'. I have on occasion used 'it'. That's not something I'm proud of.


Then there's the names themselves. Now, having been a child cursed/blessed with an unusual name myself I know the pain of having to constantly spell it and having it constantly misspelt. I can't judge a child for having a strange name. I can probably judge the parents though.


Here are some of my favourites:
 - Rihanna: Unless you have some Arabic connection or really love sweet basil (that's what the name means apparently) calling your child Rihanna suggests you want nothing more for them to produce frustratingly catchy  pop songs and spend as much time as possible wearing as little as possible. There are far more baby Rihannas tottering around Belfast than you imagine.
 - Kai: Way more popular than it should be considering the only thing I can link it to is the spawn of Wayne Rooney.
 - Aaliyah: After the not that famous R&B singer who died. I'm sure she'd be pleased.
 - Phoenix: Really? It was a girl by the way. Just one. There was also an Atlanta. Different family.
 - Any name you want hyphenated with Lee/Leigh. Jamie-Leigh, Demi-Leigh, Courtney-Lee, Stevie-Leigh. Want a new baby name? Just add Leigh. Want to call your girl a boy's name? Just add Leigh. Alexaleigh (this time all one word) was my favourite so far. I hear there's a cure for that now.


And on top of all of these there's names that we're pretty sure have just been made up. Stick a couple of syllables together, no worries. 


A joy of the job is telling Santa the name and us all having a good chortle about how ridiculous it is before bringing the child in. This can sometimes backfire if granny etc is standing behind us.


One other particularly local issue when taking down the names is the Irish language. Due to being born on one side of the road and not the other, I do not have the instinct ability to spell Irish names. When a parent comes in and says a name that is pronounced phonetically 'Sear-sha', I write 'Searsha'. But Irish being Irish, it is of course 'Saoirse'. Why spell things phonetically when you can have so much more fun adding extra letters? So I hand the ticket to the parent, receive the smirk and the 'that's not how you spell Saoirse' and see the flashing 'Ice is a big bigoted protestant elf' sign overhead. Even when it's an Irish name I know how to spell something always gives me away. 'You're one of the only people to spell Shea right,' a mother complimented me once, 'She forgot the fada*,' her partner mumbled. My co-elf Bounce has a free pass, she's originally from Mauritius so no-one expects her to be able to spell any of the names, but she does have to put up with more than one person asking if Bounce is her actual name - them traditional Mauritian names are really weird.


Thankfully in this day and age there is unlikely to be any retribution for my inability to spell Irish, though I can't help but feel the child is a bit more suspicious of my elfishness.


*if you don't know what a fada is and would like to you should check out http://lmgtfy.com/?q=fada

The Positions

When informing people of my career they often ask, 'but what do you actually do?' in a way that suggests they think we just stand around all day looking elvish. When it's not busy, that's pretty much accurate. Sometimes we eat chocolate or make chitchat to Santa or make fun of the children, but that's not our official role. 


There are three main positions in the grotto. Front till, photos and back till. Each has its pros and cons. 


At the front you are responsible for explaining the seemingly incomprehensible pricing system to the parents and getting them to decide what they want. Telling me, 'two to see Santa', is no help whatsoever. I need to know if you want gifts, what age you want the gifts for, if you want a photo, how many photos you want, if you want any of those photos on a magnet or keyring instead - it can take awhile. On the front you are also responsible for taking down the child's name, but more about that later. You then have to ring it all in the till, make allowances for last minute changes and the fact granny now wants extra photos, and give the customer the 'magic ticket' (receipt) to hold on to till their turn. Hold on to, not shove it back in your bag where you will not be able to find it when you are asked for it a few minutes later. Depending on the length of the queue, you then move on to the next person. If there is no next person you make awkward conversation with the child and/or adult until it's time to see Santa. You also play 'guess which child will cry the most' internally in your head.


When there is extra staff a fourth position is created. The easiest position of all. The 'Bringer In'. All this requires you to do is take the 'magic ticket' off the child/adult, gather the correct presents from the age and gender coded present sacks, and get the child's name to Santa. You then return to the queue and lead them round. Your job is done. No money, no questions, no complaints - you are the bringer of good things, the fulfiller of dreams.


On a normal day the photo taker is also the bringer in-er. This causes some difficulty as usually the child runs ahead and there is a buggy and several extended family members between you and the camera. There is a fair bit of pressure being the photo taker. It's essentially your fault if they don't get the perfect pictorial memory of (insert child's name here)'s (insert number here) st/nd/rd/th (delete as appropriate) Christmas. It's not; it's probably either screaming child or annoying parent's fault, but you will be blamed none the less. This position requires the patience to politely move parents out of the way of the photo, and try 101 ways to make Junior smile, or at least not cry. If they're looking at the camera I'm usually happy enough. But some parents aren't, and it can turn into a 20 minute photo shoot. 


The last position is at the back, printing out the photos. With the majority of customers this is fine. If they've asked for 15 keyrings it can be a bit time consuming but as long as the printers working it's quite a satisfying job. The printer does however, break once a day. With the parent who demanded a 20 minute photo shoot it will take at least another 20 minutes for them to decide which one you are allowed to print. For the less insistent parent, I've begun choosing the photo myself and only showing them one, which with overdone compliments about how well their child looks, I convince them to take. Much less time consuming.


The only other position I haven't mentioned is, of course, Santa. I've sat in the chair a couple of times. It was pretty comfy.

The Irritation

Everyday I use red snazaroo face paint to draw two circles on my cheeks and a dot on my nose. Everyday I worry I will forget to take it off before I leave. Everyday when I do take it off I notice that the skin underneath is remaining red. And getting redder. 


Soon I won't need any snazaroo. Maybe I am actually transforming into a real elf. Maybe my ears will become pointy. Maybe I need to buy more moisturiser. 

The Play on Words

At least three times a day I hear a variation of one of these phrases:


'How's your elf?'
'I think you need to brush up on your elf and safety'
'Are you feeling fit and elfy?'
'Do you need any elf?'
'You could lend an elfing hand'


They are usually followed by a chortle. 


I think the humour lies in the fact that the word 'elf' is quite similar in certain accents to the word 'health', and, at a push, the word 'help'. I think that's where the humour lies, I could be wrong.

The Lady

Look parent, it really undermines everything we're trying to do here if you keep referring to me as 'the lady'. Look at the hat, listen to the jingle bell, read the name tag - I'm an elf already!

The Accusation

I didn't judge her for her leopard print leggings that were attempting to pass for trousers. Or the exposed 'everything happens for a reason' tattoo on her lower back. I gave her the benefit of the doubt as she forced her child onto Santa's lap and stood demanding the perfect photo. Satisfied, she left, seemingly pleased with the end result. Another happy customer, next child please.


Returning from lunch I learn from my supervisor there's been a complaint. A parent has accused Santa of manhandling their child, accused him of being too rough, questioned his motives towards young children. I am outraged, I've been beside Santa all morning, there has been nothing of the sort - not even any refunds due to the terrified, crying children. My supervisor (Snapshot) asks me if I remember the woman - leggings, tattoo - my immediate recollection casts doubt on my lack of judging.


I am ready to fight to the death for Santa's honour, but first I let Snapshot finish the story. There will be no need to fight. A security guard came over after the complaint - he knew the woman, he had caught and banned her several times from the shopping centre for stealing, and this was not the first accusation she had thrown about. Santa was safe.


But I am still outraged. Perhaps even more so. Risking a good man's reputation and closing the entire grotto all for the chance of a five pound refund, and a free photo of your child with the man you accused. Good to know if your child really was harmed that's all it would take to content you.


I really didn't judge her for her appearance, or her status as a no doubt struggling single mum, but I do judge her for this. 


Ice don't like no liars.

The Disillusionment

'They always look smaller in movies', I heard a boy whisper to his mother in the queue. He looked at me with mistrust. 

The End Bell

Yesterday the bell of my hat came off. I had been jingling it too widely whilst attempting to get babies to smile and it came off in my hand. It was, genuinely, upsetting. For the rest of the day when I moved, I moved in silence. Escorting Santa was not as much fun without the happy tinkle that normally accompanies my footsteps.


Mum sowed it back on for me last night. I jingled louder than usual today. 

The Escort

At the beginning of every day, at lunchtime and at closing, Santa is escorted through the shopping centre. 


This must always be done by one, but preferably two elves, standing on either side ready to defend to the death. There is not usually a fear of death, but one can never be too careful. This is Santa we're talking about.


I like to imagine the escort to the tune of 'The Show Must Go On'. Actually I like to imagine my entire elf preparation to this song: starting as I slowly put on my make up and sombrely place my jingle bell hat on my head. 


Escorting Santa is fun. It commands respect. I may be in a suit akin to garish pyjamas, but I am with Santa, and everyone loves Santa. Everyone. Adults greet him with a formal, 'Hello Santa'. Middle aged women who work in shops tend to hug him. Children are enthralled and even teenagers are silenced by the greatness of the man that is before them. If they do say anything it is usually only a weak variation on 'I've been good this year, what will you bring me?' - not exactly the put down of the century. The one that asked for Justin Bieber and/or Peter Andre was admittedly entertaining. 


But I digress. I enjoy being Santa's bodyguard, and that's all I've got to say about that. 

The Destruction

Four days in and the grotto is looking tired.


The fake snow that outlines the path has been dirtied and downtrodden by the wheels of too many double buggies. The mini santas in the tree have leaves in their beards. A few toys are broken.


Yesterday a small Asian girl in a red jumper set about silently dismantling the scene. There was no parent, she was not queueing to see Santa, she did not demand a gift. It seemed she simply had a quiet mission to take things apart. The giant presents were removed from their boxes. Bows were ripped off. And the massive duck dressed as a beefeater took a battering.


Actual customers looked on bemused. I tried to reason with her, but she was not interested in communicating. She had a things to do. Realising that it is difficult to be stern and enforce discipline dressed as an elf, I feebly followed her around for awhile replacing items. Eventually she ducked under the barrier, ran through the grotto three times and disappeared. 

The Fear

99% of 1-3 year olds are terrified of Santa.


They're fine with the concept of Santa, and the concept of seeing him. They excitedly queue ready to meet the man who can make all their toy filled dreams come true. They've even waved at him from a distance with such joy that Mummy and Daddy can't say no to their pleas to visit the grotto. 


They're even okay when the elf comes  to get them. They excitedly totter round the corner; then freeze. At this point the accompanying adult will do one of two things. They will, either, tired and irritated by the wait and wanting to get the stupid photo over and done with so granny/granddad/auntie/uncle will be happy, throw the infant at Santa, ignorant of the fear and desperation that is rapidly sweeping over their child. This drop and run photo shoot never works. Having been forcibly dragged across the floor and twisted onto Santa's knee the child is in the highest state of anxiety it has ever known. It will do anything to get away. 


As the adult attempts to replace the child, legs and arms are extended to prevent any flexibility of movement - a scene reminiscent of trying to place an unwilling cat in a cat box. Tears are streaming, cries are getting louder and screams of 'no, No, NO!' reverberate through the grotto. The child clings to the guardian with such vigour, grabbing hold of any shred of clothing they can reach, desperately clamouring back to safety. They can't understand what they have done. Why someone they previously loved and trusted would take them to such a place and force them to be with such a frightening man. A world has been shattered. I feel like a prison guard, complicit in a ritualistic torturing of children. 


Parent A will get increasingly annoyed, attempt bribery with the promise of treats later in the day, and angrily inform the elf to just take the photo despite the fact they are probably blocking the lens and the child has run away from Santa. At the suggestion that they sit in the photo with their child they recoil. 'I don't wanna be in the photo!' they exclaim, and wonder at their child's reaction. This scenario, 15 terrible photos later, eventually resolves in the adult giving up and taking the best of the bunch, or demanding a refund.


Parent B lets the child take its time. Santa offers them his hand and they choose when to come closer. They may still cry at the initial lift, and still frantically reach for rescue, but with a bit of Santa magic and some well timed distractions, a passable picture can be achieved. 


Thankfully in photos, crying can often be mistaken for laughter. The tears are hidden by the light of the flash. 

The Stand In

Santa A works Tuesday to Saturday. Santa A has a real beard and kindly eyes and a soothing Yorkshire accent as previously mentioned. Santa A has santaed for 7 years and knows every trick in the book of getting screaming toddlers to smile for a photo. I'm 97% certain Santa A is the real deal, and so are the children.


Santa B's hat doesn't stay on and his trousers are too big. His beard is so small and yellow it is covered over with a fake one. His Belfast accent is coarse with years of chitchat driving taxis and chain smoking. He's a nice man, but he's a terrible Santa.


It is with disappointment I begin my shift on Monday and remember this is one of Santa A's days off. Actually, I later find out, he's tutoring maths. The children begin to arrive and with embarrassment I bring them through to meet their idol. I see the light drain out of their eyes, replaced with a cold disillusionment as Santa B limply asks them what they want for Christmas. To be honest, I'm not sure what he's saying to them. He speaks very quietly, to the point where I'm not sure if he's speaking at all or simply holding their hands and staring sinisterly into their face. 


Understandably, there's a higher cry rate with Santa B. Santa A's expert baby soothing is replaced with a clumsy poking of the face, rewarding children who'd previously been okay with Santa with a lifelong fear.


The pictures, even when there is no crying, aren't much better. It's as much effort to get Santa B to look at the camera and look anything other than dead, as it is to get a smile out of terrified toddler. 


He even forgets the presents. 

The Confirmation

It's official. I am Ice the Elf. Twinkle is no more.


That's not strictly true, Twinkle is the perky 18 year old who works at the weekends when she's not studying drama at college. I guess Twinkle suits her better anyway.


Ice takes her elfing seriously. It is not without sober thought and a recognition of the weighty position she holds that Ice puts on her jingle hat and paints her cheeks red. 


On the way from the changing room to the grotto a teenager heckles, 'Is Ice your real name?'. I wasn't sure if this was a poor attempt at an insult that ended up sounding merely inquisitive, or if the girl genuinely wished to know if I was christened 'Ice'. Whether or not she meant in the outside world, or she was revealing her belief in me as a full blown, lapland living, workshop working elf, I can't say. Either way, I answered her with conviction; 'Yes'.


Yes, heckling teenager, my name is Ice. 

The Sick

My first two days of elfing have began the same way: a pile of vomit behind the grotto. The first day it was a slippy surprise, my embarrassment cured only by the man behind me who fell in it, not on it, as I has done. The second day I was forewarned and the shopping centre staff were already on the case. 


It reminded me of wasted hours playing 'Theme Hospital'. the less popular cousin to the hit PC game 'Theme Park'. The majority of the game was spent slowly moving cleaners to poorly animated green blobs -  a punishment for not getting your patients seen to in time. I wasn't very good at the game. It was, to be honest, boring. 


I wonder if the start of every shift will be accompanied by the whiff of sick. I will be sure to keep you posted.

The Treachery

I entered the dressing room to get ready for my shift only to find my costume moved and my name badge missing. I got changed, realised my actual costume had been swapped for one 10 times its size and went with the only name I could find: 'Ice'. I later discover someone took Snowdrop's name, so Snowdrop took Twinkle's and Twinkle got Ice. Also Glitter, who, not to be unkind, is substantially bigger than Twinkle/Ice, took Twinkle/Ice's costume because she wanted a smaller one.


So there's an identity crisis. I spent the day as Ice, which with its rapper connotations has a certain gangster elf chic, but in my heart I feel I am still Twinkle. It would also mean changing my blog title. 

The First Day

Writing as Twinkle the Elf, leaving the workshop and encountering the outside world for the first time there's a few things I noticed on day one in the grotto. 

1. Children are fine, parents are scary. It should definitely be them who are threatened with the naughty list. Admittedly most of them had been queuing for 2-3 hours but if you bring your child to see Santa on the day of his big arrival what do you expect and STOP TRYING TO BUMP UP THE QUEUE. 

2. We elves are capable of many things but we cannot use our magic to conjure up a great family photo if your child is screaming/crying/hiding/weird looking, even if it is 'baby's first Christmas'. Wait till baby has the ability to control its head movements before demanding a refund. 

3. Stopping elves working to tell them how long you have been waiting will not make elves work any faster. Eventually getting to the top of the queue and spending 20 minutes deciding which photo of crying baby is best will also not speed things along. 

4. Teenagers will never ever tire of heckling.

One day down, six weeks to go!

The Training

Elf training was set for 3 weeks after the interview which, not previously mentioned, I was successful in. Characteristically early and hovering around the area I was almost sure I was meant to be I spotted a portly bespectacled gentleman with a big white beard. SANTA! I KNOW HIM! I didn't say this. What I actually said was 'You must be Santa, I'm an elf' and did an awkward jazz hands gesture.He's called Kevin and he's from Yorkshire, with an accent that simultaneously makes me want to eat Werther's Originals and drink working class tea. It also makes me think of the Davis-Leighs. You probably don't know them. Another rookie elf was present and asked me what I did. I was confused, 'I'm an elf', I replied. Turns out she is 18 and still at school. I explained that I am a full time elf, following an elf vocation. There was a silence.


Our actual training turned out to be less than exciting procedural information and how to work the till. Highlights however were a) trying on our uniforms - changed from previous year's traditional red and green to an uncomfortable purple velour that couldn't help but remind me of Katie Price. The hat does have a bell however, b) choosing our elf names - I opted to pick mine at random to add a bit of excitement and was reasonably pleased with Twinkle. I could've been Snowdrop, or Glitter - but at least I didn't get 'Bounce', c) filling up the present sacks - this actually stopped being fun after 10 minutes as it required ripping open and folding up a lot of cardboard boxes but it was probably the closest we'll get to being in Santa's workshop. 


The most crucial part of the day was probably though our quick fire, awkward questions children will ask, round. Or, as they like to call it, how to keep the magic of Christmas alive. I can now name all the reminder (although apparently there is some controversy over whether it is Donna or Donder - I prefer Donna), know Santa's favourite football team (Lapland United), and am aware of some complicated scientific reason as to why my ears are not pointy (elves get larger closer to Christmas and their ears grow out...).


Fully trained and ready to go, this is Twinkle the Elf signing out.

The Interview

I was very excited about my interview to be a 'Grotto Helper', imagining all sorts of weird and wonderful tasks to prove my love of Christmas and suitability as an elf. In the end it lasted 4 minutes and mainly revolved around whether I'd walk to work if it snowed. I said I would. The most exciting part about it was that my mid 50s, female, interviewer had the same hair as Slater from 90s hit TV show Saved By The Bell. She said they'd let me know by tomorrow and we parted ways.